


Some Days, All I Do

by OctoberSpirit



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: 100 phone calls, 100 phone calls fic drive, Cecil Is Not Described, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Horoscopes, Late Night Conversations, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, NVCR, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Episode: e051 Rumbling, Relationship Discussions, Scientist Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), Texting, Tumblr Prompt, lonely cecil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSpirit/pseuds/OctoberSpirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Aquarius: <em>Your boyfriend is trapped in an alternate desert dimension. It is difficult to say when he will return. Perhaps take up drinking while crying in a quiet room.</em> Wow! That’s a very specific and…painful horoscope. Thanks for nothing, stars!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Days, All I Do

Cecil fumbles for his phone, half-asleep and bleary. His glasses press uncomfortably at his temple; his breath tastes bitter against his tongue. He’s only vaguely aware of his surroundings. “Hullo?” he groans, ear pressed to the touchscreen. Distantly, something rattles through the pipes.

“Hey,” says Carlos. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“Yeah. Uh, no.” Cecil throws a hand out into the dark, scattering papers, and locates the desk lamp. He winces as light floods his radio booth. “No, I was…working.” Gingerly, he touches his cheek, feeling the imprint of Carlos’ wristwatch. The actual article ticks from his wrist—it’s a little after three in the morning.

“Oh. Well, hey. I listened to our broadcast.”

Cecil scrubs a hand across his eyes, then pushes his glasses back into place. Seven coffee mugs ring the cluttered desktop, but none contain any actual coffee. “You wha?” he mutters, stifling a yawn.

“Our broadcast? I listened to it. There’s an app on my phone.”

“Oh,” Cecil says, then—comprehending—“Oh! Carlos, I didn’t… You can still hear my show?”

Carlos smiles in a way that touches his voice. “Of course. What would I do here without it?”

Something wobbles in Cecil’s chest, a pressure that reaches his throat, his eyes. Absently, he touches a coffee cup. It sloshes, half-empty and cool beneath his fingers. “Carlos,” he says.

“Cecil,” says Carlos.

Cecil tucks his legs against his chest, curling into a ball in his chair. Unanchored, it starts to spin very slowly. “So what did you think? About the broadcast.”

“A lot of things. Cecil…about all this…”

“Carlos, you don’t—”

“No, listen, I’m not…” Carlos sighs, and Cecil can practically see him in the darkness, hunched over and gripping a handful of hair. “I do miss you, Cecil. I want to come home. But this, this place, how can I not? It’s new and fascinating, and there’s so much to explore. I’m not _wired_ in a way that I can ignore it. I’m a _scientist;_ that’s, it’s who I am.” He makes a pleading little sound, and when he speaks again, there’s a roughness to his tone. “I hope that you can be patient with me. I love you so much, like a goddamn supernova.” 

The pressure resolves into hot, trailing tears; they tremble into words without Cecil’s permission. “I’m patient,” he says, “it took you a year. I’m patient, I promise, I love you too, Carlos.”

“Oh, Cecil,” says Carlos, and the tears take their cue.

Cecil presses the phone against his ear, a layer of moisture between his skin and the touchscreen. His shoulders tense as he curls more tightly, shaking with sobs that break free in the gloom. Carlos murmurs little nonsense words, phrases that roll like a warm undertow, dragging Cecil below the stark surface. In his mind, Carlos holds him beneath the strange lights, and Cecil holds back, breathing his scent. Chemicals and lavender, something singed, something sharp. The faintest tinge of blood and graphite. 

“It’s okay, I’m okay.” Cecil sniffs, his head throbbing. “I can be patient. Just promise you’ll come home.”

“Cecil, I promise.” There’s a pause, and Carlos breathes into the speaker, like a gust of wind on a clear desert night. “Hey, are you at the station right now?”

“Uh-huh,” says Cecil, wiping his eyes.

“You didn’t go home?”

“No, I…was working.”

“It’s just… Look, about the horoscopes, Cecil.”

Cecil sighs. “I’m sorry, that was passive-aggressive. You call me a lot. I’m grateful we can talk."

“Not mine, actually,” Carlos says. “Yours.”

It takes a moment; exhaustion clogs Cecil’s neural pathways, and the sob-induced headache does nothing constructive. _Aquarius,_ something finally echoes, a ripple of thought in Cecil’s own voice. _A quiet room. Crying. Drinking, perhaps._ “Oh,” Cecil murmurs.

“Yeah,” Carlos says.

Cecil slides a glance toward one of the coffee cups, prying his glasses from his face. The world blurs, and he rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’m really okay. It isn’t excessive. We talk every night, and I know you’ll come home.”

“Okay,” says Carlos, but his voice is careful. “I’d like to ask Josie to check in on you, though. Would it be okay if I ask her to do that?”

Cecil’s gaze sweeps the blurry outline of coffee mugs; with his foot, he pushes a desk drawer closed. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That would be fine.”

Carlos gives another verbal smile, a quiet, familiar curve of his speech. “Thank you, Cecil.” He caresses the name. 

Cecil tips back his head. “Of course, my dear Carlos.”

-

Later, after the sun has come up—sixty-three minutes early, Cecil notes on Carlos’ chart—Cecil unfurls himself from the chair and slouches toward the men’s room to wash his face and feed Khoshekh. As he searches in vain for his emergency toothbrush, his phone buzzes twice from the edge of the sink. A text from Carlos. He swipes the screen.

 _Love compatibility,_ reads the little gray text bubble. _When Taurus and Aquarius come together, they can move mountains—if they can figure out how to coordinate their efforts._

The phone buzzes again in Cecil’s hand. Another gray bubble. _We can figure it out. :) Call you tonight. xoxo_

Cecil smiles or sighs or laughs or sobs, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. Khoshekh trills, concerned, and stretches out, licking the tip of Cecil’s thumb.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Cecil says. He raises his head and swivels his wrist, scratching the base of Khoshekh’s spine ridges. “It’s okay; I’m okay. He’ll be home soon.”

Khoshekh mewls and curls up in midair, Cecil absently scratching, glancing down at his phone. He traces the shapes of the letters with his eyes, rereading the message, imagining stars. Some days, they’re as different as the void and the sky, a stark contrast of personalities and priorities. And no, their relationship isn’t perfect—but perfect is for condos and Desert Bluffs. Perfect has no place in Night Vale.

“But Carlos does,” Cecil murmurs. “Carlos will always have a place with me.”

He skritches Khoshekh beneath the chin, turning to head back into the hall. As he reaches for the bathroom door, a wave of laughter bursts from his throat, echoing off the tiled walls. “Why is it always _mountains_ with him?”

Outside, two interns glance at the door, then scurry top-speed to go hide in the break room.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song "Watch the Sky" by Something Corporate. It's always reminded me of Carlos, but especially after Old Oak Doors. Like, go look up the lyrics; you'll see it.
> 
> My contribution to the #100phonecalls cecilos fic drive on tumblr. Also my method of working through post-episode emotions.
> 
> The love compatibility thing is real; it came to my attention in an anon-ask to videntefernandez. (Who, incidentally, does some excellent wtnv art, if you're interested.)
> 
> I am so invested in this relationship, it's ridiculous. If you want to hang out with me while I reblog cecilos stuff and cry, you can find me at octoberspirit.tumblr.com. :3 Seriously, bother me; I'm game.


End file.
